


Ma Puce

by naasad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Bisexual Feuilly, Canon Era, Canon deaths, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Kidnapping, Kissing, Mentioned Assassinations, Siblings, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, rape mention, short enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-06 03:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16824070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naasad/pseuds/naasad
Summary: Someone unexpected shows up at the Musain and derails the meeting before it even begins. (A series of connected vignettes.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't published anything with an OC in literally forever, so I figured I'd give it a shot.
> 
> The only thing historically accurate about this is Enjolras' height. ( **Fun Fact:** The average Frenchman's height in the early 19th century was 5'4" or 163cm.)
> 
> I'll be adding chapters whenever the mood strikes. I'm not expecting a lot of traffic, because so many people are just weird about OCs, but please please please review if you like it!

For once, Enjolras entered the Musain with the others, just behind Combeferre’s broad shoulders. He ran through the meeting itinerary in his head. There was much work to be done before the revolution could begin – the sooner the better.

He was so lost in thought, he didn’t notice when Combeferre stopped in his tracks, and so he ran smack into his friend’s back.

“Who are you?” Combeferre demanded, speaking to the room in front of them.

Enjolras went on his tiptoes and craned his neck. He couldn’t see anything. “Curse your height,” he muttered under his breath.

“Do not worry,” said a very familiar voice.

Enjolras went immediately from trying to see over his friend to trying to hide behind him. This could not be happening.

“I’m here to see Feuilly.” There was the sound of coins clinking in a purse. “I have his payment.”

Enjolras shot a betrayed glare at the object of his affections.

Combeferre, seemingly satisfied, stepped aside.

Enjolras was too slow to keep up with him.

The woman seated inside grinned at him, immediately relaxing. “ _Coucou, ma puce_.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, feeling himself start to unwind regardless. “Justine.”

Feuilly glanced between the two of them, frowning, before stepping closer to Justine. “You already paid me.”

Justine shrugged and stood. “It simply isn’t fair that you aren’t recognized every time your work is put to good use. This is the arrangement I had with my previous fanmaker. Five per-cent of my commission.”

“Commission?” Feuilly glanced inside the purse and his eyes went wide. “This is too much, I can’t accept this.”

Justine shrugged. “Alright, what would you like me to use it for, then? As I said, it’s only five per-cent. No trouble, and certainly not charity.”

Feuilly blinked in shock, shaking his head. “What fan on earth could garner this much money in a single commission?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Why do you think she had you make the spokes out of sharpened metal? She’s an assassin. The bourgeoisie pay her to rob and murder each other.”

Justine grinned, eyes glinting dangerously. “They don’t appreciate having knives in their homes. None of them even know how I do it, they just accept that I get the job done.”

“How do they not suspect you on sight?”

“I make a point to maintain regular visits with all my past, present, and future clients.”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Can we please start the meeting?”

“Wait a moment.” Justine tilted her head, examining Feuilly. “You aren’t possibly _the_ Feuilly are you?”

Enjolras made a noise like a dying cat.

“Are you well?” Joly whispered.

Feuilly shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

Justine smiled and walked over to Enjolras, clapping him on the shoulder. “You are a man of taste, aren’t you, _ma puce_?”

“Please stop calling me that.” Enjolras turned a bright red.

Jehan looked between the two of them. “Are you two… archenemies?”

“Very nearly,” Justine laughed.

Enjolras sighed. “She’s my older sister.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “I thought you were an only child.”

Justine shrugged. “I adopted him.” She grinned and tugged him close with an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll have to stop here now, every time I get a commission. In fact, maybe I should stay for an extended visit. I missed you.” She kissed Enjolras cheek and held out a hand to shake with Feuilly. “And it is such an honor to finally meet you - again, but you understand. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Feuilly frowned but shook.

Enjolras groaned and covered his flaming face with his hands.

Justine winked at him and walked out.

“I don’t understand any of what just happened,” Grantaire confessed.

Bossuet patted his hand. “That’s not unusual, _mon homme_.”

Enjolras sighed and vigorously scrubbed at his face. “Can we _please_ start the meeting now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Coucou_ is apparently a cutesy way of saying hello, usually directed at kids, and _ma puce_ means 'my flea', as in something small and cute. As an older sibling myself, and I can confidently say treating your little brother like a baby in front of his friends is the sweetest form of torture. :)
> 
>  _Mon homme_ is like "my man" or "my dude".


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac and Justine get together to gossip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me a while to decide whether or not to continue this, but if nothing else, it's a good exercise.

“But I do not understand,” Courfeyrac whined. “Enjolras told us he was the only son of a wealthy family.”

Justine sipped at her tea. “He did not lie, if that’s what concerns you.”

Courfeyrac huffed.

Justine shook her head, smiling. “If he didn’t tell you himself, I certainly won’t go behind his back.”

“Very well then,” Courfeyrac pouted. “I won’t ask again. But tell me of yourself instead!”

“How much do you want to know?”

“As much as you will tell me! Perhaps I will gain some insight into some of Enjolras’ more odd habits, then.”

Justine huffed and crossed her arms, leaning back. “Alright. My father was British, an explorer – that is to say, colonizer – and I, unfortunately, resemble him a great deal. He boasted of how he assaulted my mother to get me and commiserated over the fact that I was not a son, though he would tell me ‘an exotic daughter will do nearly as well’. I ran away when I was still a child, searched for my mother. I learned how to defend myself from men like him from anyone who would teach me. I taught myself reading, writing, arithmetics, and sciences – of the earth, the body, the plants, and animals. I settled in Paris when I was fifteen. That was fourteen years ago.” She drank the rest of her tea. “I quickly realized there was demand for someone of my skillset among the upper classes. It was disturbingly easy to warp techniques I’d learned for defense into something that could kill. I became wealthy very quickly. I live in comfort, but I give what I can to better use, rather than have it just sit there. I remember too well what it was like to have nothing – not even the clothes on my back.”

Courfeyrac stared in awe. “Did you ever find your mother?”

“No. It was a fruitless endeavor. When I ran away, I was too young to ask my father where he had been at the time I was conceived. All I knew was ‘Asia’.” Justine shook her head. “And I finally accepted she would most likely not want to see me, as much as I look like him.”

“That is inspiring.”

Justine glared. “I am not here to be inspiring. I am a person trying to make my way in the world like anyone else. And I did not bring you here to talk about the past.”

Courfeyrac bowed his head, appropriately chastised. “What did you want to talk about?”

Justine smiled and leaned forward. “Tell me about Feuilly. I’ve heard too much already from my brother, but I’d rather hear it from someone more impartial.”

“If impartial is what you’re after, you would be better off talking to Combeferre.”

“Ah, but I guess Combeferre would not be as happy to whisper like two old grandmothers about such things.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “You guess right! Enjolras _adores_ Feuilly.”

“This I know.” Justine’s eyes sparkled. “Continue.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I kind of forgot that Justine is staying at her own place instead of with Enjolras for an extended visit, so I've gone back and changed that in the first chapter.

Enjolras looked up as the door unlocked and set aside his tea, balancing his book more delicately on his lap.

Justine hummed happily as she walked in, pausing to press a kiss to his cheek before disappearing near the bath to change out of her dayclothes.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” he asked, perching his chin on his hand.

“Nothing.” Justine shook her head as she reappeared and poured her own cup, then she settled beside him on the sofa. “I see your bastard father didn’t forget your monthly allowance.”

Enjolras huffed. “He never does.” He looked back down at his book and exchanged it for his tea, taking a careful sip. “You didn’t come back with any groceries.”

Justine’s eyes twinkled. “You have many delightful friends.”

Enjolras choked on his tea.

Justine laughed. “Got you…,” she sang. “You should know better by now. I’ve never had a beau, and I never intend to get one.”

Enjolras nodded, swallowing carefully. “What did you talk about?”

Justine shrugged. “Many things. I talked with Combeferre about the possibility of locomotives and what they will mean for our society and economy. I talked with Bahorel about the best way to break into a shop unseen and steal what you need then disappear right under their noses, rather than shatter a window and run like hell. I talked with Joly about how it is possible to frighten your enemies at the sign of so much of their own blood without causing much damage at all. He was very pleased. He’ll be a much better asset to your revolution now that he’s not worried about killing people.” She rolled her eyes. “Such a silly thing to worry about. People die constantly. How do you know it’s before their time?”

Enjolras shrugged. “We all deserve to live until a ripe old age.”

“Hah! Like forty?” Justine shook her head. “One day, we’ll all live to be nine-hundred-ninety-six, just like old Methuselah. And you will not want the killers of this world living for so long then.”

Enjolras set his cup down a little too harshly. “I do not want the killers of this world living at all.”

“Does that include me?” Justine raised an eyebrow and leaned her head on the back of the sofa, drawing a knee up to her chest. “You know, some people will say that makes you just like us.”

Enjolras sighed. “Joly’s empathy isn’t a weakness, it’s a strength. We could all learn from his example.”

“I have empathy.”

“Do you now? You told me yourself you do not care to remember the men you’ve killed.”

Justine nodded. “That’s true. But I remember every single person they hurt – every wife, every child, every shopkeep, every gamin or grisette. Who remembers them but me?” She glanced at her brother out the corner of her eye. “What I do is not bad, Corin. I exterminate the sinners of the world, but rather than fire or water, I simply use a very effective tessen. Just as you will use very effective bullets. The only differences between us then will be that I’m a woman and I get paid to do it.”

Enjolras sighed and looked down at his cup. “I guess we will always have to disagree on this matter.”

“I guess so,” Justine sighed.

They sat in silence for a long moment.

She smiled and turned to look at him. “You’ll never guess what I talked with Courfeyrac about.”

Enjolras groaned. “You didn’t.”

“We talked about you. And about Feuilly.”

“How is this my life?”

Justine shrugged. “I walked in the door one day and stole you away into it.”

Enjolras shook his head and smiled. “Have I ever mentioned how grateful I am for that?”

“Often, but it doesn’t do any harm to stroke your dear sister’s ego a bit.”

Enjolras laughed. “Alright.” He set down his tea and curled up in the corner of the sofa, leaning towards her. “What did Courfeyrac say?”

Justine smiled. “Feuilly has taken both male and female lovers before, but they’ve always despaired at how much he works and left just as quickly as they came.”

Enjolras’ face fell and he looked away, staring into the fireplace. He shook his head. “What chance would I have then? Between his work and mine, we would never find time for each other, we’d drive each other mad with neglect.”

“Or….” Justine smiled. “You can accept him as he is, you can accept how little you might see each other, and you can make time when you can. I have found that if you start out with low expectations, you’ll never be disappointed.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. He drew his knees up to his chest and perched his chin on them. “I’ve never been so terrified in my life,” he chuckled desperately. “How do you do it? How do you live the life you do and never be afraid?”

“Hm.” Justine pulled him close, wrapping him in her embrace. “I am always afraid. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have survived my father, let alone my trip through the continents, or this life I’ve chosen for myself now. Fear keeps us alive. How we react to fear makes us human. Animals only react – they run, they fight, they freeze…. Humans have the option to take action. To seize fear by the throat and say ‘I’m going to make it better anyway’. That’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done. Why would this be any different?”

Enjolras nodded, pursing his lips in thought. “How long have you been practicing that?”

Justine snorted. “Since you sent me your first letter absolutely nattering on about this great new friend of yours and how he was the most beautiful being you’d ever set eyes on – inside or out.”

Enjolras smiled shyly. “I said that?”

Justine nodded. “Many times. Twenty-six in the past year.”

The two of them devolved into giggles.

Justine stroked the hair away from his brow. “You want my advice, Corin-Michel Enjolras?”

“Please.”

“Then I say you seize fear by the throat and you go and kiss that boy until he can’t breathe.”

Enjolras twisted to look up at her. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will.” He stood and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You always give the best advice, big sister. But I think it’s long past time for bed now.”

Justine smiled softly, laying down on the sofa. “And where would I be without my little brother looking out for me?”

Enjolras shook his head, tucking a spare blanket around her. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night.” Justine watched him fondly as he doused the fire and left for his own bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras grabs his fear by the throat.

Enjolras took a deep breath, watching as his friends collected their belongings.

Justine winked at him and left on the arms of Combeferre and Bahorel.

Enjolras scowled at her, then made his way over to where Feuilly was speaking quietly with Grantaire. He put a hand on his shoulder. “Walk with me?” he asked, hoping it sounded more innocuous than it was.

Feuilly stared at him a moment, then nodded. “Where are we going?” he asked as he stood and put on his hat and coat.

Enjolras shrugged. “I don’t have a particular destination in mind.”

Feuilly frowned and walked out the door and into the street. Once they were a significant distance away from the Musain, he opened his mouth to speak. “I know you don’t approve of Grantaire, but he is my friend and we share many things in common.”

Enjolras opened and closed his mouth, then opened it again. “Oh,” he said, the sudden question of if Feuilly had affections for someone else popping into his head. “I would never presume to say who you should and should not spend your time with – at least not unless it was a matter of life and death, then I would be remiss in my duties as your friend to say nothing.”

Feuilly instantly relaxed, smiling graciously. “Forgive me, I should not have assumed.”

Enjolras hummed distractedly. “We are friends, aren’t we?”

“What do you mean?”

Enjolras shivered and came to a stop at the side of the road. “I mean only that…. Well, I consider you one of my closest and perhaps my dearest friend. I wonder if you feel the same.”

Feuilly frowned. “Enjolras - ˮ

“Let’s cross through the park.”

Enjolras crossed the street, and Feuilly followed close behind. “Of course, you are my friend as well, Enjolras. Have I recently given you some reason to doubt that?

Enjolras shook his head, stopping on a small bridge. “No, never, just….” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, on the verge of yanking it out. “I’m doing this all wrong.”

“Maybe it would help to start at the beginning?”

Enjolras nodded. “Excellent idea.” He straightened and tried to recite the facts. “Justine told me Courfeyrac told her that you have had male lovers in the past.”

Feuilly bristled. “And what of it?”

Enjolras opened his mouth to say more but found himself interrupted.

“Courfeyrac should not say things that are not his to say. I suppose you want to know if I have ever looked at you with lust in my heart?”

Enjolras nodded. That would help, he thought.

Feuilly became enraged. “What do you want me to say, Enjolras? You are beautiful, as I’m sure you know, and I am only a man. I do not intend to act on it. If my bisexuality makes you uncomfortable, perhaps we should not be friends any longer.”

“No,” Enjolras tried to say, “that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I meant – I only meant - ˮ

“Meant what? Spit it out, Enjolras!”

“What if I wanted you to?”

“Wanted me to what?”

“What if I wanted you to act on it?”

Feuilly stared in shock.

Enjolras put a hand on the side of his face and stretched up to press their lips together. After a brief, desperate moment, Feuilly responded, opening his mouth, and plunging forward. It was a long time before they parted, resting their foreheads together. “You’re still breathing,” Enjolras noted.

Feuilly made a confused noise.

“Justine told me to take my fear by the throat and kiss you breathless. Clearly, I’ve failed.”

Feuilly laughed and placed his hand on Enjolras’ face, his thumb resting on his lower lip. “There’s plenty of time to remedy that before she hears of this.” He paused. “So when she came to the Musain and was acting so strangely….”

Enjolras nodded. “I’ve been sending her letters about you for years.”

Feuilly chuckled and shook his head. He sighed and straightened. “I need to know what you want of me.”

Enjolras shrugged. “We are both constantly busy, you with your work, and me with my schooling, and the both of us with our revolution.” He cast his eyes about for a policeman. “It will be hard, but perhaps we can make a little time for each other. For talking and for kissing and for… other things, if you would like.”

Feuilly kissed him once again. “That would be excellent.” He gave him another kiss and another. “You are free to kiss me breathless now.”

“Oh, good.” Enjolras dove in with fervor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be two more chapters after this - the unveiling of Enjolras' tragic backstory, and a post-barricade Justine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the reader unlocks Enjolras' tragic backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to remind everyone that historical accuracy is not a priority in this fic. This one's just for fun. ;) However, Marseilles was known for being just about always against whatever the central government was at the time.

Now that Enjolras had Feuilly’s affections, he was nearly obscene with them, making up for lost time. He kissed him hello and good-bye, not caring who saw. He was always touching him – on the hand, the arm, the shoulder…. On one memorable occasion, he even placed a hand on his thigh as he leaned in for an overlong tonguing.

But the moment he settled in his lover’s lap, whining for a hit from his pipe, was the moment Courfeyrac had enough. “We understand!” he cried. “You love each other very much, and we are very happy for you, but could you possibly have a little more decency?”

Enjolras glanced at him and then ignored him, by way of kissing Feuilly’s neck.

Courfeyrac huffed. “Technically speaking, I could order you to stop. I do outrank you.”

“You hate using your family’s power,” Combeferre pointed out.

“And I think it’s adorable,” Marius said, flushed red, “and as a future Baron, I outrank you.”

Justine shook her head. “It’s a moot point, Enjolras outranks you both. When his father dies, he’ll inherit his rank of Marquis, so he can do whatever he damn well pleases.”

Les Amis collectively gaped.

Enjolras hid his blushing face in Feuilly’s neck. “I forgot about that.” He frowned. “I’m not sure I would be suited for the position. I don’t know how to run a marquessate.”

Justine raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

Enjolras groaned. “I hate you.”

“I believe you mean ‘Thank you, dear sister, for preparing me for my unavoidable responsibilities.’”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t surprise me I forgot. I’ve forgotten nearly everything to do with that house.”

“Good,” Justine snarled.

The Friends shared looks of confusion between themselves.

Enjolras sighed. “You may as well tell them.”

“Are you certain?” Justine asked.

Enjolras nodded.

“What is it?” Combeferre asked, leaning forward curiously.

Justine shrugged. “I was just gaining fame in Paris and beginning to take commissions in other cities. I was called to Marseilles by le Marquis Casimir Enjolras for a former business partner. He’d sent other assassins, but all had failed. I did not. But as it came to light, he had assumed I would and did not have payment. He offered me twice what I had asked for within ten years or anything I could carry from his home. I took the nine-year-old son he’d been abusing when I first arrived and blackmailed him into sending a monthly allowance as well.”

“A-abusing?” Joly asked.

Enjolras shrugged out of his waistcoat and braces and pulled up the hem of his shirt to reveal heavy scarring all up and down his side. “Don’t ask what caused it, I couldn’t tell you.”

“I could,” Combeferre murmured, examining from a distance.

“Well, don’t.” Enjolras quickly re-dressed. “I’m happy not knowing. I get to live far away from him, and then when he dies, I inherit everything that matters to him. That’s good enough for me.”

“What will you do with it all?” Feuilly asked quietly.

Enjolras shrugged.

“The northern home has fifty bedrooms,” Justine reported. “You could offer all your friends semi-permanent lodging, and fill up the rest with those who have nowhere to go. The southern home, where I took you, has nearly one hundred. You could turn it into an orphanage if you wanted.”

Feuilly glanced up thoughtfully.

“I’ll consider it,” Enjolras promised.

Bossuet frowned. “I’m having a bit of trouble,” he said, “wrapping my mind around the legality of it all.”

“Combeferre, do you have the papers I gave you?” Enjolras asked.

Justine’s head snapped up, glaring with concern disguised as fury. “Where are yours?”

“In my coat pocket, but I’m comfortable.”

Justine visibly deflated.

Combeferre frowned and handed L’aigle the document.

“‘To Mademoiselle Justine LaBelle: In payment for services rendered,’” Lesgles read aloud, “‘my first-born son, Corin-Michel Enjolras, retaining all his inheritances; and an allowance that shall cover his food, lodging, clothing, and education, to be delivered on the tenth day of every month until his death or my own. Particulars below.’” He read the document one, twice, thrice. “This is slavery,” he snarled, outraged on behalf of his friend.

Joly took half a step back, unused to any sort of temper from his congenial lover.

“In the eyes of the law, Enjolras is no more than your property!”

“It’s alright,” Enjolras said. “Read the last paragraph again. You missed a key condition.”

Legles frowned, searching the document for whatever it was Enjolras wanted him to see. He sighed and deflated. “‘Upon the request of Monsieur Corin-Michel Enjolras, the specified monthly allowance will be paid in his name; upon his further request, he shall be released from the wardship of Mademoiselle Justine LaBelle; and if he so chooses, this contract shall be immediately considered null and void.’”

Enjolras nodded. “Justine is my dear sister who rescued me from a terrible man and raised me in love. I’d appreciate you remembering that.”

“So why haven’t you requested it?” Bahorel asked, taking the contract to read for himself.

“Because,” Justine said, “he _is_ a Marseillais. This way, if he tries to do something foolish, say, martyr himself for the cause of glorious revolution, I can save him.”

“You consent to all this, Enjolras?” Combeferre asked.

“I do consent,” Enjolras said immediately.

“You’ll forgive us if we have every lawyer in the room read through it first,” Bahorel said.

Justine and Enjolras both nodded.

Justine stood. “I understand what this looks like at first. I shall give you time to reconcile your thoughts and feelings.”

Enjolras caught her hand as she walked by him. “I’ll see you at home.”

She smiled and left.

Enjolras turned his attentions back to his lover.

Courfeyrac pouted.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras' papers are put to use and he keeps a promise.

“Wait! Wait!” Grantaire scrambled to the second floor of the Corinthe, papers clutched in his fist.

Enjolras vaguely recollected him last in a state of drunken unconsciousness, covered by Combeferre’s coat.

Grantaire handed the papers to the sergeant. “You cannot shoot this man.”

The sergeant read through the contract slowly, then stared at Enjolras. “Do you choose to have this contract be null and void?”

“No,” Enjolras said on reflex.

The sergeant scowled at Grantaire. “He shot an officer.”

“His warden will answer for that.”

“We need to make a statement – to tell the people of France we’ve punished all the leaders of this failed revolution.”

“You are surrounded by dead bodies, choose any of them.” Grantaire leaned close. “Do you even know who Justine LaBelle is?”

Two of the National Guard lowered their muskets. “We cannot shoot this man,” said one of them, trembling in fear. “I will not.”

The sergeant glared at his underling, then jerked his head to the door. “Take him, then.”

Grantaire dragged Enjolras out by his elbow, surprising him with his strength.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Enjolras hissed. “It was not your place.”

Grantaire snorted. “You don’t get to decide that, fair Apollo.”

Enjolras scowled, then froze, looking at something nearby. He ran ahead, howling like a wounded animal as he fell to his knees by Feuilly’s lifeless body. He cradled him to his heart, giving great, wordless cries, tears rolling down his face, mixing with the dirt and blood.

Grantaire took a step back, giving him space to grieve.

Finally, Enjolras bowed his head, then stood. “Help me carry him,” he ordered.

“Will you carry the others, too?” Grantaire asked, taking Feuilly’s feet.

“I will come back for them,” Enjolras vowed.

* * *

“Enjolras.” Justine shook him awake. “We’re here.”

Enjolras shook his head, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“You were dreaming,” his sister said.

Enjolras shook his head. “Remembering.”

Justine nodded, silently offering what empathy she could. “Do you need a moment?”

“No.” Enjolras exited the carriage, looking up at the Marseilles home. “I don’t remember this.”

Justine smiled. “It has been twenty-five years.”

Enjolras nodded and walked up the steps, stopping to press his hands to the newly installed plaque.

“He would love this,” Grantaire said, stepping outside.

Enjolras smiled. “He would.”

“Come.” Justine took his hands. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Will I like it?”

Justine paused. “It may be bittersweet.” She dragged him to the second story. “The lady of the house’s chambers for me, the master bedroom for you, this one for Grantaire, and this one….” She paused outside a door labeled Les Amis. “This one used to be yours. This is where I took you from.”

Enjolras steeled himself and pushed open the door, unprepared to see the faces of all his friends staring back at him. He stifled a sob with a fist, walking around to visit them, to read the descriptions and touch the few artifacts – Combeferre’s book of moths, one of Bahorel’s scarlet waistcoats, the gun he’d given to Gavroche, among others. He stopped in front of Feuilly, reaching up to caress his face.

He turned to glance at Grantaire’s hands, paint-stained as always.

“A shrine?” he asked.

Justine smiled. “The ones we love never leave us, not so long as their memory endures.”

Enjolras nodded, looking around again. There was a table in the middle, and a chair – from the Musain, no doubt. He closed his eyes.

“Monsieur le Baron will be here tomorrow,” Grantaire said. “He’s bringing his wife and father-in-law. They’ll help us comb the streets. The kitchen is in a frenzy, the staff is ready and waiting for your orders.”

Enjolras straightened his spine and walked out the door. “Let’s get ready.”

As he ambled out the house many hours later, he stopped to touch the plaque again.

* * *

_La maison de la délivrance –_

_un orphelinat et une école pour tous les enfants dans le besoin –_

_en mémoire d'un orphelin qui a adopté le people –_

_l'homme que j'aimais_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon my shitty French. The plaque reads:
> 
> _The House of Deliverance_   
>  _An Orphanage and School for All Children in Need_   
>  _In Memory of an Orphan Who Adopted the People_   
>  _The Man I Loved_
> 
> This of course is a reference to the Brick:
> 
> _"Feuilly was a workingman, a fan-maker, orphaned both of father and mother, who earned with difficulty three francs a day, and had but one thought, to deliver the world. He had one other preoccupation, to educate himself; he called this also, delivering himself. He had taught himself to read and write; everything that he knew, he had learned by himself. Feuilly had a generous heart. The range of his embrace was immense. This orphan had adopted the peoples."_
> 
> On the nose? Yes. Do I care? No.
> 
> I had a lot of fun with this, but I'm just about 100% sure this is it for this universe. I'll probably write a lot more Enjolras/Feuilly at some point, but not for this one.


End file.
